Gay
by stilettov
Summary: Jim/Molly one-shot, shortly after Sherlock's first impression. PWP, with maybe a teensy bit of plot.


Molly, feeling just a little bit toasted, had a bit of trouble fitting the key in her flat's lock. Jim hovered behind her, and she felt herself growing hot in the face. She decided this was stupid, and turned, shoving the keys into his hand.

He arched a brow at her silent vehemence and calmly unlocked the door, holding it open for her. She couldn't help but feel a tiny twinge of guilt at this as she passed him, dumped her purse and coat on the floor, and kicked off her shoes. She hadn't meant to get this drunk, but she had felt so awkward trying to force conversation with her coworkers that she had slightly overdone it.

"You're a bit cross, aren't you?" Jim ventured, his tone soft, the tone one might use with a skittish horse.

"Yes!" Molly said suddenly, feeling a surge of anger that was quite alien to her normally upbeat and perky nature.

"Are you going to make me guess?" he said with a tiny smile, dropping into her white wicker chair. Toby bypassed her and immediately trotted up to him, nuzzling against his ankles. He reached down to scratch the cat's forehead. "Are you worried about what your friend said? About me being gay?"

"He's not my friend," Molly said sullenly, dropping back on the bed. "All the stuff he said...he's almost never wrong."

Jim shrugged. "Almost? What did he say?"

"Does it matter?" Molly huffed. "You put your number under that dish you dropped. He showed me."

"Did I?" Jim's eyebrows shot up, but he was still smiling. "Did you check to make sure it was mine?"

"I-" Molly's drink-sodden mind ground to a halt. "No."

"So he could be lying," Jim continued, picking up the now-purring Toby and giving him a solid scratch behind both ears. "How well do you know this guy, anyway?"

"All the other stuff, though," Molly countered. "He said you used a lot of product in your hair, and tinted your eyelashes...or something. Do people do that, tint their eyelashes?"

Jim said absolutely nothing. He just shut down, went blank, so abruptly that Molly winced. Then his face cracked, and he bit the knuckle of his index finger, clearly trying not to burst into laughter.

"It's not funny!"

Jim snerked through his nose, causing Toby the cat to make an angry retreat under his mistress's bed. He dissolved into breathless giggling, hunching over as his face turned red.

Far from finding it adorable, Molly was unsettled. She sat back on her bed and folded herself up, watching him until he finally recovered himself.

"Oh, love," he said as he got up to sit next to her. "Silly thing. There's only one possible explanation."

She bit her lip to keep from pouting. She felt like an idiot when she pouted, but she was intoxicated and given to stupid impulses. "Yeah?"

"He's jealous."

"What?"

"I said he's jealous, though of whom, I couldn't tell you." 

"Jealous, how?" She wondered why she was the one doing such a shit job of keeping up after the number of Irish Car Bombs Peterson from HR had bullied him into doing. Stupid bastard seemed to think it was clever, but Jim had gone along, to no apparent effect.

"Jealous of you," he said simply. "Or jealous of me. Couldn't tell you which."

"Why would he be jealous of me?" Molly said, feeling a little bit more relaxed.

"It must be because I'm dead sexy," Jim deadpanned.

She laughed a little. "Why would he be jealous of you, then?"

"Oh, now that's even more obvious."

She frowned at him, trying to work out just what was obvious, when he seized her by the wrists and pressed her back against the pyramid of lace throw pillows she painstakingly assembled every morning before leaving for work. She let out a little squeak of surprise.

Jim's eyes had gone dark, and the smile that curled on his face was a little unlike him. It scared her a bit, but there was an undercurrent of excitement, too. Maybe those Car Bombs were having an effect, after all. Typically he waited for her to initiate sex, and was a perfect gentleman about it, too.

His usual chivalry seemed to have been shelved for the moment, as he slowly, but very deliberately plucked apart the buttons of her cherry-patterned jumper. Underneath was one of the white lace camisoles she wore, something no one but Jim ever got to see. He hooked one finger on the low neckline and traced it around, knuckle brushing her skin.

"Obvious," he said, the word sounding so much less derisive and so much more seductive coming out of his mouth than Sherlock's. Then he bent his head and dipped his tongue into her cleavage, licking a path up her collar, along her throat and finally over her chin to her mouth. She forgot about Sherlock.

"Obvious," he repeated, just barely a whisper, his lips catching hers in a quick, wet kiss. "Who wouldn't be jealous of me?"

She shivered from head to foot. This was new. He grinned as he tugged aside her bra strap, pressing a kiss right at the bundle of muscle that connected her neck and shoulder, tonguing the shallow groove where the strap lay for the past twelve hours. She had been wearing nicer bras lately, wanting to please him, wanting to show off for him, but they weren't all that comfortable. She was wearing his favourite now, a pale blue satin thing, not particularly daring. He liked the way it felt, he said. He liked that it clasped in front.

The other strap came off, and he nuzzled his face into her collar, clever hands rolling up the camisole and pulling it right over her head. Then he ducked down for another kiss, but this one was hard, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, all Guinness , whiskey and Irish cream. His teeth pressed hard against her lip, catching it, biting down just hard enough to cause her to shudder again, just this side of painful.

Without thinking, her hands found their way underneath his shirt, feeling all the wiry muscle that made up his torso. He was strong, despite his slightly diminutive stature, and Molly liked that. Liked that it was hidden strength.

He leaned up and tugged the shirt over his head, tossing it away. Putting one hand at the small of her back, he pulled her into his lap, and she found herself straddling him, hands splayed across his chest. Lifting her, he seized her bra's front clasp in his teeth and ripped it apart. Unsupported by the straps, it fell away, and he went straight to work, sinking his teeth into her right breast.

She let a small scream, but then moaned as he sucked on the mark. In one fluid motion, he tilted her right on to her back again, grinding his hips into her as one hand wandered down her midriff. She could feel him through his trousers, hard, ready, but he seemed content with his current occupation. He unsnapped the front of her black work trousers, dipping his fingers down underneath the band of her satin knickers. He let his fingertips just brush along her skin, teasing her, his face a mask of vicious pleasure.

Feeling a little bit ill used, Molly decided to take matters into her own hands, quite literally. She seized the front of his trousers and yanked him forward a little. He let out a sound low in his throat that might have been protest but for the little purr in it. She gave the neon band of his boxer briefs a little punitive snap, and grinned as he winced.

"Obvious," she said, showing her teeth. He smiled, kissed her, and leaned into her hand, groaning into her mouth as those slender digits encircled him. By now, Molly would be asking him if she was doing it right, if it felt right, if he wanted her to do something differently. She wasn't asking now.

She held him firmly, stroking him from the base all the way to the tip. He was rigid as steel under that velvety soft skin, and oh-so-sensitive. She felt flushed with wicked pleasure as he hissed in breath through clenched teeth, then let out a low, wet, "uh" from parted lips, his eyes rolling back a little.

She kept at it until he seized her by the hair, wrapping it around his wrist. "Wait," he breathed.

"Don't want to," she said, looking coquettishly back up at him.

"Well, that's too fucking bad for you, isn't it," he said, pitch black laughter under his words. It would ordinarily have given her pause, as she had never before heard him swear, but there was nothing ordinary about what he had started doing with his other hand. She forgot about his grip on her hair as she bent in the middle, blood rushing through her body as he slid his hand under her knickers, dipped one finger into her and crooked it, as though beckoning her.

She felt her own eyes roll back, her face going hot, a tightness at her core that seemed to be pressing on her lungs, making it hard to breathe. It didn't matter, as long as he kept doing that, kept moving his hand in slow, hard circles against her.

"God, you're wet," he said in soft amazement. "So wet, Molly. For me?"

"Mmm," she was having trouble vocalising. He leaned over her, and the smile was gone from his face. It was hungry, predatory. It frightened her. It made her want him more.

"I said," he repeated slowly. "Are you wet for me?"

She bit her lip and nodded, closing her eyes. Hands peeled off her trousers, and then a new sensation. His mouth, kissing her, tonguing her clit, sealing right over the nerve endings and sucking hard on her. She screamed again, a quiet scream, because she couldn't get up the breath. His hand fluttered along her stomach. He didn't appear to notice that she had seized the bed covers and twisted her fingers into them, trying hard not to scream again, letting out little whimpers.

Finally, he showed mercy and rose, licking his lips with an insolent expression in his eyes. "You're so tasty, Molly. Like an oyster, but sweeter. Could have you with champagne. I have some Dom Perignon Rose stashed away. I think you'd compliment it nicely."

The strangeness of this remark was lost on Molly, who was even more vividly intoxicated now. The gin and tonics had run their course. It was Jim Moriarty she was drunk on now.

"Jim," she whispered, not bothering to try and keep the want out of her voice.

"Shh," he said, slithering out of his trousers, body sliding across hers as he settled right between her legs, poised to enter her, but holding back.

"Jim." It wasn't a plea, but a demand.

"So impatient," he clucked his tongue. "Say please."

"Please."

Then he was inside her, and it was ecstasy. He knew her so well, inside and out, but the man making love to her wasn't Jim, or if it was, it was a part of him she had never seen. Something dark. Something dangerous. Something wicked, possibly fattening, definitely intoxicating, absolutely delicious, and she knew was bad for her the way cigarettes were, bad for her the way drink was, the kind of bad that was cancer causing. Cause of death: overexposed to Jim Moriarty.

His grip on her wrists was bruising, his mouth fierce on her throat, teeth a hair's breadth from breaking the skin, but the hurt tempered the pleasure, the latter more dangerous and in its own way, more painful. Finally, when she couldn't stand it any longer, she seized him by the hair, tightened her thighs on either side of his hips and rolled him on to his back.

Far from objecting, he seemed to be enjoying his voyeuristic perspective, one hand resting on her flank appreciatively as he watched her, his face clouded and eyes hooded, mouth open as he hissed in breath. She gripped the headboard and rode him at a gallop until the strength went out of her. He took over, shoving her on to her front, taking her from behind, one hand pressing down on the back of her neck, increasing the pressure. The hand on her neck was hard, unyielding, cruel. But as he thrust into her, slow, hard, jerking thrusts, the pressure loosened and he ran his fingers down her spine. She felt his breath next to her ear, his teeth tugging at her earlobe.

"Come for me," he said, tongue tracing the shell of her ear. "I want to feel you come for me."

As though his words had touched those buzzing nerves, she came, holding on to the sheets for dear life as he held on to her, one hand holding her breast roughly, the other snaking around her front to tease her clit. She bit down on her pillow and screamed into it, while he grunted and his body jerked, the pressure catching up with him. He came, riding on the current of her orgasm, and she could feel her muscles spasm around him. She breathed deep and tightened those muscles, and was rewarded with a strangled cry, vibrating her skin as he bit into her shoulder.

He pulled away from her, rolling on to his back, gasping for breath, dripping with sweat. She didn't move, just let her face lay in the pillow, a delicious breeze playing across her skin. Then she turned on to her back. She didn't look at him, but let her fingers feel across the constellation of marks and bruises he had inflicted.

"Sorry," he said in an offhand way that suggested he wasn't sorry at all. "Bit carried away."

"It's okay," she murmured. "I just...I've never...done it that way."

"Really," he said, getting to his feet and stretching broadly. "Could've fooled me, you little harlot."

She blushed. "Really."

"Anything in the fridge?" he asked, wandering over to the little kitchen and popping open the ice box. "I'm going need some carbs if I'm going to do that again.

"...again?" Molly stared at his back, disbelieving.

"It's early, isn't it?"

"Oh," she said, and felt a sudden flash of glee. He was right. It was hardly midnight. "We could order some takeaway."

"Where's your phone?"

She found it under the bed, along with a very agitated cat, who she wisely decided to let alone. She handed the phone to Jim. He dialled a number from memory, and was promptly connected. He ordered some Thai, and then went back to the bed and collapsed backwards on it.

Molly lingered in the doorway, watching him.

"So you're not gay?" she teased, making her way over to the bed and dropping down next to him.

"I never said that," Jim said without the faintest hint of irony.

"That's not funny."

He seemed to think it was. He gave her a loopy grin, and leaned back against the headboard. After a moment's scowl, Molly laughed in spite of herself, and went to cuddle up next to him. He put his arm around her, and stroked her hair tenderly.

She wasn't watching his face, and missed the dead, hungry expression as he stared out the window. The expression was divorced from his tone, if not his meaning as he said, "hope they hurry up. I'm absolutely _starving_."


End file.
